


it's not your fault ;; roger taylor

by taylorsroger (buckyrogers)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character trauma, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fluff, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyrogers/pseuds/taylorsroger
Summary: It starts with an innocent proposition, but it all turns into a mess, because she can’t accept the fact that he has feelings for her, or even that he cares about her.





	it's not your fault ;; roger taylor

**Author's Note:**

> Right, I was majorly inspired by the movie Good Will Hunting, especially by the fight scene between Will and Skylar. I recently rewatched it and remembered how much I loved it! I pictured 80′s Roger while writing this one. This is kind of sad once again… Sorry, I’ve been feeling sad lately. Mentions of domestic violence and alcoholism. If you are easily triggered by it, please, don’t read this! There’s also cursing. Sorry for any mistakes! Feedback is always appreciated!

Roger’s bedroom atmosphere still smelled like sex. Your naked bodies bore a thin layer of sweat, legs entangled against each other’s, blankets almost slipping off the mattress to the ground. Your head rested on his chest as your fingers lazily drew random patterns on his skin. You absentmindedly closed your eyes at the faint sound of his heartbeat as his fingers gently caressed your scalp. Both of you lost in a drowsy state.

“I want you to move in with me,” Roger whispered against your hair, voice rather raspy.

“Are you sure about that?” you curiously asked, propping yourself up against your elbows, the soft mattress scrunching under the movement of your body.

Any drowsiness which insisted on dragging you to sleep was inexistent. Roger’s unexpected words had an awakening aura, bringing you back to your senses as soon as they reached your ears.

“Oh, yes,” Roger murmured, a drunken-like smile plastered on his lips as his fingers now reached yours on the mattress, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

“How do you know?” you egged him on.

Would it  _actually_  be a good idea? You and Roger have been seeing each other for almost four months. However, no solid relationship had been built between you both. At the beginning, meeting him was supposed to be a one-night stand: Roger’s reputation preceded him, which led you to drown any feelings before meeting him for the first time.

However, throughout the sixth time your bodies wildly tangled on the blankets, a flame had ignited between you and Roger,— which either profusely refused to admit — leading to more concert invitations and more nights spent at each other’s apartment. But that was it. Would  _“I want you to move in with me.”_  be an utterly messy love confession?

“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging lazily, his blue eyes focused on the movement of his fingers over yours. “I just know…”

“Yeah, but  _how_  do you know?”

“I know because…” he uttered, gnawing on his lips. He averted his gaze to your eyes. “I-I  _feel_  it.”

“‘Cause that’s a really serious thing you’re saying, yeah?” you anxiously replied, sitting up on the mattress while retrieving your hands from his. Your heartbeat accelerated against your ribcage, blood annoyingly thumping in your ears.

“I know,” he whispered nervously, eyeing his abandoned fingers before slowly retrieving them to his lap. Would his words have been a mistake?

“We’ll be living together next week and, you know…” you started, voice slightly cracking. “You might find out something about me you don’t like. Then, maybe wish you hadn’t said  _that_. But, it’s such a serious thing that you can’t take it back and now I’m stuck in your apartment with someone that doesn’t really want to be with me. With someone who just wishes they had a take-back.”

“A what? What’s a take-back?” Roger asked incredulously, squinting his eyes at you. “I  _don’t want_  a take-back. I just want you to move in with me.”

You shook your head negatively, dragging your body from his bed and quickly standing at the foot of it. He intently watched your movement as he, himself, sat up on the bed slightly pulling at the blanket under his body. The drunken-like smile previously plastered on his lips had been replaced by a downhearted frown. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. Roger’s anguished gaze slowly traveled up your standing nude body, which, in  _any other_  situation, he would have loved to watch.

“Well, I can’t move in with you, so…” you uttered, shaking your head once again as your gaze locked with his.

“Why not?” he dragged himself through the bed, reaching its foot. He felt distinctly aggrieved at having his offer rejected in such a rude manner.

“One, because I…” you briskly started, collecting your pieces of clothing so eagerly discarded throughout the bedroom an hour prior. Abandoning them by Roger’s side on the bed, you rummaged trough the small pile, pulling your panties out. “I recently bought my apartment. Two, because it’s the nearest to the university. I don’t have a car, Roger. And I can’t afford one right now. If I moved in with you…”

Roger’s eyes focused on your delicate fingers grazing over your skin as you dressed yourself. However, a dismal expression replaced his once adoring gaze, which caused him to focus it on his fidgety fingers instead.

“Look, um…” Roger anxiously mumbled at you. “If you don’t love me, you should just tell me.”

“I’m not saying I don’t love you,” you replied, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous statement.

It wasn’t that ridiculous. You knew it. _“I want you to move in with me.”_  had been an utterly messy love confession, which you insistently tried to dodge. You had been used to living alone. You had accepted loneliness, embracing your own company and learning to enjoy yourself. Meeting Roger had been such an overturn in your routine that you still tried to get used to spend nights  _together_  with him.

He had poured his feelings out by asking for you to move in with him. After all, almost four months later, he found himself longing for your presence: it had been a while since meeting you was no longer a ridiculously meaningless one-night stand. Nevertheless, after your rude attitude towards his confession, Roger found his hope ebbing. He had been certain you corresponded his feelings until he let _those words_  fall from his lips in such a passionate manner.

“Then why? Why won’t you come? What are you so scared of?” Roger insisted as he abandoned the bed and dawdled towards you after pulling his underwear from the wooden floor.

“What am I so scared of?” you replied, frowning at him.

However, your heartbeat accelerated once again against your ribcage, blood annoyingly thumping in your ears. How could he sense the fear running through your veins?

“Well, what aren’t you scared of?” Roger instantly reformulated his sentence, spitting the words. An irritated frown was carved on his provocative features. “You live in this safe little world where no one challenges you, and you’re scared to do anything else…”

“No, no, no. Don’t tell me about my world…” you irritably admonished Roger, interrupting his words from reaching your ears, since they dragged some truth with them.

A churlish chuckle escaped from your lips as your defensive personality controlled your being. Roger replied the rude gesture by crossing his arms over his chest as he patiently awaited for your aggressive words to perforate his body as though violently fired bullets. His gaze scanned over your irritated features, obliging your eyes to lock with his while a leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his stomach. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Don’t tell me about my world! What about you? You just want to have your little fling with the girl from the other side of town. Then, you’re gonna go off to anywhere else on Earth, you’re gonna meet people who are far more interesting and just sit around with another useless celebrity and talk about how your money can fucking buy the Moon, maybe the Sun, or the damn entire galaxy!”

“Why are you saying this? What is your  _obsession_  with money?” Roger snapped, his voice obviously drowned in irritation. “The band’s success is escalating, the money is a mere consequence! That’s my life and I deal with it. So, don’t put your shit on me when  _you_  are the one that’s afraid.”

“What am I afraid of? _What the fuck am I afraid of, Roger?_ ” you bellowed at him, desperate eyes glistening with tears.

Roger  _knew_. An eerie silence fell upon the room as he deconstructed your defensive personality. You cowered against the nearest wall, silently crumbling down inside, but managing to let just a preoccupied frown reach your forehead.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispered downheartedly. “You’re afraid that I won’t love you back. You’re afraid of admitting your feelings. It’s written in your eyes.”

You eagerly shook your head, though the tears cascading down your cheeks silently screamed the opposite. It couldn’t have been clearer that you were afraid of the whole situation. Spending years suffocating emotions as a child led to a negative view of confessing feelings. They shouldn’t happen as easily as Roger made them be. No! He hesitantly stepped forward, causing you to raise one of your trembling hands towards him in a clear gesture for him to stop.

“You know what?” he continued in the same tone. “I’m afraid, too.  _Fuck it!_  I want to give it a shot, YN. I know my reputation precedes me, I’m not denying it. But is it responsible for exempting me from any feelings? Does it oblige you to believe you are meaningless to me? I beg you to believe in  _me_ , not in whatever is said about me.”

“I-I believe in you, Roger,” you replied, nodding absentmindedly.

Because you believed in him, everything seemed harder. Your strong sense of being meaningless to people wouldn’t let you  _accept_  his confession.

“Yeah, good. I’m honest with you, right?.”

“I’m not honest with you? Is that what you’re implying?”

“No… I mean… Well, what about your father? Isn’t he expecting us for a visit?”

You gulped, pressing your lips together in a thin line. No, he would  _never_ expect you for a visit. You, averted your gaze to the bedroom door, intending to reach it. Roger hurried to your vulnerable figure, pulling at the remaining pieces of your clothing in your hands in an attempt to preclude you from opening the door.

“No, no, no. You’re not going. You’re not leaving,” he desperately mumbled, pressing his body against the door while tightly grasping at the doorknob. Your pants were held tightly in his other hand.

“What do you want to know? What?” you snapped at his childish behavior, violently pulling your pants from his grip. “That I haven’t talked to my father in years? That he’s a fucking alcoholic? No, you don’t want to hear that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Roger desperately replied, blinking hard in a failed attempt to avoid tears from brimming his eyes.

“You don’t want to hear that, Roger! You don’t want to hear that I got fucking beer bottles thrown at me when I was a little kid!”

“I didn’t know that!” Roger insistently mumbled. Honestly, how could he have known?

“That this isn’t fucking surgery!” you bellowed at him, pointing at an ugly scar on your lower back that stretched to your waist. “The motherfucker hit me with a broken bottle when I jumped in front of my younger sister in an attempt to protect her. Do you know why? Because she had missed school.  _You don’t want to hear that shit, Roger!_ ”

“I do want to hear it!” Roger suddenly bellowed at you, reaching the same tone you aggressively used.

“Don’t tell me you want to hear that shit!” you insisted, lunging at Roger by the door in a failed attempt to open the door.

Veins popped from your neck as an emotions avalanche exploded through your body. How dare you assume Roger would be oblivious to that? It was almost offensive to him since he, himself, had been a victim of domestic violence to some extent. He pushed himself from the spot against the door to which his body had been pressed, pacing towards your cowering figure. His eyes locked with yours, as you tried to extract any answer from them. Any answer which would cause that emotions avalanche to stop.

“When… When you said I might find out something about you I don’t like, were you referring to this?” Roger hesitantly asked. He needn’t an answer, though. But you timidly nodded, lips aquiver.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled desperately. “I’m so sorry, Roger.”

Shit. No. Roger’s body almost convulsed as those words reached his ears.

“For what?” he inhaled deeply, raspy voice slightly trembling. Why were you apologizing?

“F-For… For…” you started. It was almost impossible to restrain the pained sobs that burned inside your throat. “For the mess I’ve made.”

Those words echoed inside Roger’s mind, causing it to throb uncomfortably as though sharp daggers were cutting through his skin. He firmly clenched his jaw in a failed attempt to prevent a few strangled sobs to escape from his lips. Once again, he paced towards you. Seeing that no sudden movement was made, his hands reached your trembling ones, firmly wrapping around them.

“Look at me, YN,” Roger silently asked. Your glistening eyes focused on his features. “It’s not your fault.”

You nodded, nervously averting your eyes from his. Your fingers pressed tighter against his. How could he assume that? “I know.”

“YN, it’s not your fault,” Roger insisted.

You nodded once again. “R-Roger…”

“Stop apologizing for other people. Their attitude towards you is not your fault,” Roger continued. He obliged himself to keep a stiff upper lip, because the words that left his lips, he wished to have heard them from someone, he wished he, himself, had already accepted the message they carried. “Do you believe you deserved your father’s attitude towards you, YN?  _Shit._  Not a single look, word or aggression. I beg you to listen to me:  _it’s not your fault_.”

Your eyes brimmed with a great amount of tears, which blurred your vision. Roger was nothing more than a shadow before you. His fingers lightly wrapped around your hands were the only clear evidence of his presence. His thumbs brushed over the back of your hands in a soothing gesture. However, once the first tear broke free, you desperately reached for him, tugging at his forearms and pressing his body against yours in a tight hug. Your arms tightly enlaced his neck, causing him to gasp at the sudden interaction, and your fingers immediately closed in a fist as you hid your face in the crook of Roger’s neck.

His hands, at first, hesitantly pressed against your clothed back, but, in a matter of seconds, his arms snaked around your body, embracing your trembling figure in a tight hug. It seemed to be a simple hug to anyone. Not for you, though. Roger’s arms embracing you meant caring. Caring gestures towards you hadn’t been common through the years. The genuineness of that gesture slightly cracked the fierce barriers built around you.

“G-God…” you mumbled desperately at his words.

It wasn’t your fault.

Sobs escaped from your lips as you cried with the force of a woman giving birth to child. Your red and blotchy face pressed tighter against Roger’s bony shoulder, which hurt. The loud weeping echoed around the bedroom walls. Roger’s heart raced at the amount of emotion escaping from your being, fingers fiercely digging into your skin. His face contorted into a pained expression. His lips trembled slightly, eyebrows intensely frowned, silent tears cascading down his cheeks. The uncontrolled tears poured out in a flood over Roger’s skin. Your face muscles trembled violently, burning slightly due to the scrunched up expression plastered over it.

“Oh, God… Oh, God… ”

Roger nodded fiercely at the words you repeatedly whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

Body shaking vigorously, your legs crumbled down. Your attached figures reached the wooden floor in a loud thud, which sent a sharp wave of pain through your veins. Your hands covered your contorted features as strangled sobs burned in your throat.

“It’s not my fault.”


End file.
